


moonsickness

by tommyinnit



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Timedeo, Bad Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Black and Grey Morality, Gen, Mentioned Wilbur Soot, Self-Indulgent, dreamsmp bs, i am so behind everything, i miss smpearth, implied / referenced child neglect, somewhat follows canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27830323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tommyinnit/pseuds/tommyinnit
Summary: Tommy’s tangoed with this void for as long as he can remember, which is as good as fragments of yesterday under tumultuous waters. It’s a slow dance, one that’s been going on since he was stuck in that starless ravine, cold and alone, but maybe he could handle the painful pace of said waltz with a friend.-tommy finds comfort in an old friend.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationships - Relationship, Time Deo & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Comments: 31
Kudos: 321





	1. Chapter 1

The sun doesn’t rise in the morning without a stinging numbness in his soul.

Tommy wakes up to an intense void that’s already licking his emotional palette clean, leaving no trace of yesterday’s angst or joy. It’s an old friend at this point; the searing, aching and violence of nothing that casts everything in a monotony of grey and white architecture, a boring shadow of green meadows and looming hills.

At first, Tommy used to approach the damn thing with violence. He screamed, kicked things, tried his best to weed it out by intensifying his every exploit with thrills and mischief till right blurs with wrong, but it infected everything with it’s ugly vapidness to the point where even fighting back became tiring and stale, so he co-existed with it.

Of course, it heavily impacted Tommy’s bits but no one noticed because no one ultimately cares about him. Too busy with their responsibilities and what-have-yous. He sits like an abandoned mutt thrown away for his abrasive demeanor and biting, rotting away in every single interaction.

Usually, he’d spend some time with Tubbo to distract himself but he’s knee deep in paperwork and adult responsibilities, and Quackity is too busy being _himself_. It’s not like he’d want to talk to them. Neither of them trusted Tommy anyways, and the splendor of their friendships have rusted. Phil would be the next best thing if he wasn’t preoccupied with Fundy’s adoption papers.

In his time alone, he got to familiarise himself with his new friend. It's still as much an enigma as it was before, but at least it had some rhyme and reason to it. It didn’t eliminate his emotions, it merely suppressed it. The kicker was that it was actually trying to help him. It kept him safe from the disappointment, but compromised by severely limiting his range of emotions to anger, boredom and pensive. Any complex feelings were just white noise to him, black and white like TV static.

It follows Tommy’s every step. From the hot garbage pile that he sleeps in, to L’Manberg, then to wherever he can best cause as much trouble at, into the pots of hot water he’d find himself in, and back into his hovel, nestling next to him.

The morning light seeps through his windows, marking the dawn of a new day. Another day he’ll most likely forget. He struggles against the siren song that is a crude recreation of a bed, and ascends up his basement stairs. The room he’d prepared for Vikkstar is collecting dust but Tommy refuses to give up on that little chunk of hope left. Connor vandalised his house yet again with Star-Spangled banners.

Dawn fissures the night with the cold crackle of glitching sunlight, remaining as cold as night. Though the moon’s already halfway out the door, it’s still as dark as before and the dying night triumphs through the morning sun, resulting in a haze of purple and red. It’s such a pretty sight it looks fake. Fauna scurry across the boardwalk as it creaks under Tommy’s soles. Yesterday was a quick burst of screaming, fire and a bit of classic robbery. Maybe today might be a little more different than yesterday, and while the look of the thing’s face begs to differ, Tommy likes a bit of hope to get through the day.

Someone calls his name. Luckily, Tommy still remembers his own name. Muscle memory kicks in and he finds himself waving at a distant silhouette, uneducated of both his intentions and identity. The figure grows from a dot, to a blob, to a man.

“It's been ages since we've last talked, man. How've you been?”

His sunglasses seem to shimmer as he readjusts it to fit more snug on his nose with the rest of his face obscured by shadows, which doesn’t help Tommy with the whole identifying who this guy is. The timbre of his voice sounds familiar and it’s probably Eret given the baritone.

“I've heard that you've been up to some wars recently, and though I am sad you didn't think to invite me, I decided to drop by and offer my assistance. Y’know, like the good old days.”

Heavens knows what the fallen monarch’s got up his sleeves, but he’s not really up for the task today. He’s got another ugly architecture he’s gotta build out of cobblestone either to impress Vikk for the thirtieth time or to keep him out of a padded cell, and he’d really like it if Eret were to so kindly sod off as the English would say.

As strong as a half-lucid man with an on-and-off relationship with reality, he pushes the man aside, snarling.

“Eret, I really appreciate the offer but piss off, bud. Got my own things planned for today that I've got to do.”

“I dun know who this Eret guy is, but I'm definitely not him. If you've already forgotten my name after five months, It's TimeDeo.”

If reality didn’t seem real before, it definitely felt like it's glitching out right now. Someone’s thrown in a three or four into the line of binary keeping the universe turning and working, and the error in the system manifests in the form of the TimeDeo standing outside his house at six in the morning, and in classic Deo fashion, is completely ignorant by how creepy that may come off to anybody else but Tommy and possibly Tubbo.

And it's not a trick of the light. He's definitely corporeal since his hand didn't faze through him like it did Wilbur.

Surprisingly, his memories of Deo aren’t too blurry, while the rest he doesn’t recall were captured in polaroids stashed far away in his ender chest. They’d pissed off his brothers, killed god, and possibly toyed around with the world’s most expensive minion over a hissing volcano. Fun times then.

“Wait, Deo? The fuck are you doing here?” Tommy asks with enough urgency to startle the mutt wrapped around his feet, almost sparkling with the same resplendence he once used to have before all those wars. It’s like he’s been given back something dear he’s lost forever ago, and god is he more than glad to welcome Deo back into his life.

“To find fairy souls.” Deo sardonically replies, to which Tommy crosses his arms at. “I offered to join L’Manburg to help with your resistance or whatever since you don’t really have the best track record with war.”

“You’re weeks late, Big T– Big D? No! – T-Money. L’Manberg got blown into bits two weeks ago. And screw you! I’m perfectly capable of winning wars! I’ve won oh so many wars against Dream of all people, shut your damn mouth, TimeDeo, or I will be forced to play the Able Sisters song right now-”

“-Calm down Tommy. Can I join L’Manburg or not?”

Tommy says something he knows Tommy would say, every syllable falling crisply off his tongue despite them not being his. “You’re American though. I recently banned Americans from L’Manberg alongside men.”

“A double negative makes a positive. Let me join.”

Having Deo back on the team would be fun-ish, but as a Vice-President, he’s supposed to be more mature and adulterous-ish or whatever Tubbo demands out of him and he’s not supposed to make decisions without consulting the rest of the cabinet. However, the only traces of Tubbo he’s seen is a short sentence in a letter he’d mail to Tommy or his answering machine, so fuck it. When’s the last time he’s felt so motivated to do something?

Tommy can’t exactly tell if he’s happy or not, but he’s more certain that he really doesn’t wanna keep Deo out of L’Manberg’s confines as long as possible. “Touché. Can't really argue with that logic now, can I?”

“Sweet. Do I have to sign some documents or legal paperwork to become a L’Manberg Citizen?”

Tommy pats Deo on the back. “Leave that to Tubbo, my friend. When you’re with me, all you need to think about is text girls, snapchat streaks and consume copious amounts of drugs.”

“Jeez, War really has fucked you up, Tommy.”

“Well, War fucks anyone up, dun it?” Tommy mutters, a bit more melancholy than he was before. “Anyways, want a tour round L’Manberg?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ve got nothing else to do.”

The buzz suffuses and is quickly snuffed out. The sun climbs the deep red sky slowly, while Tommy walks down the path a bit warmer than before. As nice as it would be to just turn back home and retreat under his covers and contemplate leaving his bed ever again, Deo’s an old friend of his and he kinda just shot himself in the foot there with his auto-pilot speech.

Some time passes and they’re close to approaching L’Manberg and Tommy feels like he needs to scream and kick something, but it’ll just raise alarms about how Tommy’s got some cogs loose and he’s got to be kicked out of the Vice-President seat. Quackity has got his eyes on his seat, and Tubbo wouldn’t care less if Tommy was either gone or dead, so he’s got to at least attempt to struggle. He’s been doing it his whole fucking life.

Of course, he falls into short spells of silence till he forces words out of his throat. Though his emotional inhibitor has taken a backseat in this whole walk, it’s still pressing a few buttons here and there. Tommy would oblige and shut up if he weren’t with Deo.

Wilbur never struggled with this stupid problem. He’s so fucking special and charismatic, and Tommy just can’t measure up. If Wilbur was here and still kicking, he’d tell him he’s an absolute disappointment like he usually did. Tommy was always the worst out of the three.

Feeling a lot more angrier than before, Tommy looks up from his feet.

“Oh. There’s L’Manberg.”

She rests in a blanket of deep red sunlight, still deep in slumber despite the encroaching morn and will remain asleep for the rest of eternity. Honestly, it’s just a sea void of any interest except for it’s meretricious value, but the defining trait of L’Manberg is that Tommy can think of is that it’s a bunch of houses packed closely together. It’s just another place. Tommy wonders why he fought so hard for this stupid country in the first place.

Deo points at L’Manberg. “Why’s it walled off?”

How the hell did Tommy miss the black walls surrounding it, but then again, someone could set him alight and he’d barely notice it. Tommy takes a moment to survey the landscape a little closer, and then the rest of the time thinking of an excuse for his lapse. “Wait, that didn’t even click with the old ‘ead. Something fishy is up.”

“How did you not notice the walls around it? Aren’t you supposed to be the Vice-President?”

“It’s ‘cause this shit wasn’t here yesterday. Did Tubbo do something without telling me again?” Tommy mutters, biting down on his subconscious anger of Tubbo discarding him like literally everyone else did despite being his supposed best friend. Have they even held an exchange that wasn't through letters anymore? Wilbur and Techno were his brothers but they threw him away too-

“Tommy. What the hell have you done these past few days.”

Suddenly, someone’s grabbing his lapels and shaking him vigorously, and speaking of the devil, it’s his _best friend_. Same person who he trusts with his life to only receive a cold shoulder back. Worst part is that he can’t exactly blame him for it given his new responsibilities and new friends, but god does he so desperately wants to. He can’t shoulder the blame alone.

Tubbo’s eyes look dead. If they’d always look this dead, Tommy must’ve just mixed up fact and fiction, but he swears it didn’t always look like he’s been dead for six hours. He’s shed that navy blue coat of his and into a creased shirt and tie, probably burnt the midnight candle judging from the state of his hair, and looks about ready to kick Tommy’s shins in.

“Okay. Believe me! Whatever they said? Wasn’t me.”

“Shut up, Tommy, you’ve compromised national security, so just shut up for once in your life and look at what you’ve done!”

Out of all three emotions he seems to experience, Tommy’s feeling angry. His throat clogs up with words, his stomach feels weird, and his face contorts into a scowl. That’s not the exact emotion he’s supposed to exhibit but he’s trying his best. Next thing he knows, they’re screaming at each other, and Quackity has to hold Tubbo back from knocking the daylights out of Tommy while he mouths off some inane shit to defend himself. It’s not like he cares anyways. He’s now feeling bored, or tired, or numb, or all of them.

Tubbo, after some minutes of Tommy’s almost unintelligible arguments, gives up on screaming, realising talking to Tommy's futile.

“Okay. Just - meet me in the Camarvan. We’ll discuss it there. And sorry you had to see that, Deo. Long time no see.”

Deo seems pleased that they’re not screaming and yelling anymore. “Yeah. It’s fine, man. How’s the hitman business going?”

“That’s dead in the waters, Deo. My hands are full with L'Manberg as of right now.”

“Wait, Tubbo, you used to have a hitman business?” Quackity asks. “Jesus, Tubbo.”

“As I’ve said; dead in the waters.” Tubbo sighs, before dragging them into a hole in the wall and into L’Manberg’s premise. Nothing seems too destroyed yet but if Dream’s involved, that’s subject to change. 

Tommy, still dazed from screaming, tries to remember what he did yesterday. He thinks he burnt someone’s house down, or burnt an important war monument down, but nothing should’ve precipitated an ugly obsidian wall bordering off L’Manberg. Everyone robs and burns everything and nothing is sacred, so there's no reason it's because of him, right? Thinking gets tiring after a bit and he follows Tubbo into the Camarvan.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: DEO AND TOMMY AREN'T GENUINELY FLIRTING AND ARE JOKING. DO NOT INTERPRET THIS AS SHIPPING. and also thank you to my beta-readers!! you lot are wonderful :]

The sun perches itself above the meadow, mellow light pooling onto the van’s table. Deo had been left outside due to not being a member of the cabinet. Sitting in the shade were everyone except for Quackity, who picks at his jacket sleeves with the hue of his countenance a shade of both worry and fear. Tubbo, sitting at the far end opposing Tommy, explains the predicament they find themselves in and that there could only be a catalyst for such and as if rehearsed, all eyes fall upon Tommy.

Tommy, first to play, advances his white pawn to F3; totally denying any liability. In a torpid state, Tommy did the best he could to argue against the allegation brought forth, which turns out to be not very much at all. Turns out it’s as valuable as Schlatt’s remains. No one seems to buy it - he’s pointed fingers at Niki, which in retrospect was incredibly stupid given her docile character - and by the end of the discussion, he’s cornered himself spectacularly.

Maybe the total desecration of his dignity will chuck him out of this mess he’s found himself in - screaming, tossing, and whining like a dumb mutt who doesn’t know any better. It’s not like he could've exactly save himself from the grave he’s digged himself, but maybe making a mockery of the situation would lighten his sentence.

Having gone nowhere due to Tommy, they adjourn the meeting, hoping to include the man who’s walled off the entirety of L’Manberg in the conversation. Tommy retires from the Camarvan and out into the open where the skybox melts from hazy purple into magnolia and dew collects on the tip of every grass blade, creating prints of their footsteps on the wooden path as they approached the all-mighty man himself.

“Hey, Dream- I’d like to start by pointing the attention to the massive elephant in the room, which is the massive obsidian borders you’ve put up around L’Manberg. I’d like to know if there was any- any motives.”

In classic dickhead fashion, he flashes a shit-eating grin at Tubbo, subliminally imploring Tommy to carve his face in with his feet. Dream's always a mystery; his mask hides his face, and his intentions are hidden behind his sharp teeth. Everything about him is an enigma from his loose morals and personality is, given he possesses either of those. Clad in green, every limb he has is made of either sin or vice, prancing about the server fields as a pantomime villain with zero the charm and less likability.

“I’m just trying to be helpful.”

It was at this point his vision clouded with red, subsuming the monochromatic filter that dolled up his life to nihilistic gripes and churning out a vehement red that punches him in the face. As if he'd ever done anything fucking helpful in his mean, green existence besides fucking ruin his life. He could be happy, but no, he’d had to fight in fucking wars and lose two lives to him. Tommy could feel his nails taste blood as they dig deep into his palms, and Deo hadn’t the need to look at him to realise his seething and he settles his hand on Tommy’s shoulder.

“Dream, I don’t see how this is helpful.” Tubbo crosses his arms, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Dream, I really don’t.”

“Well, you see, we signed treaties a while ago.”

“Yeah?”

“And then your country held a democratic election and elected Schlatt - democratically - and then forces came in and raided the country, took it over, killed the president, and took over the land. So, to me, those treaties mean nothing ‘cause you are a new government and you’ve taken over the old government. You disregarded the old government’s law and you took it over!”

Disregarding the fact that Schlatt died of a heart attack, the dramatic pauses for every other word lost Tommy twice. It’s all a bunch of political jargon and whimsy that’s barb is to provoke confusion among them, and it drives Tommy nuts. It’s all palaver he’d sooner discard into the abyss alongside himself.

“I didn’t care about this until Tommy went and burnt down the vacation house of our king!”

Now that he mentions it, Tommy does remember some of it. A lick of flames here and there and a broken window. A tuft tail that swings like a pendulum belonging to a docile enderman hybrid swept the wooden floor of George’s house. The rest are as good as sunlight underwater. The intangible emotion that guided his nefarious mind and hands a passing thought of the night.

Everyone doesn’t seem too overjoyed to receive this news despite having expected it. They scream at him again thinking they’ll achieve anything by doing so. Tommy reckons they’re all a bunch of idiots for being disappointed. No one can disappoint you if you don’t expect anything from them, and out of everyone in this world, they should know that best.

“Our king’s vacation home was burnt down by Tommy!” Dream grossly exaggerates.

Tubbo raises an eyebrow. “Was it? - Tommy?”

“No, no, no.” Tommy wildly gesticulates, “It would have been robbed if anything. This doesn’t sound like something I would do. Sounds like something an incredible robber would do.”

Ennui tightens the blindfolds on his eyes, obscuring his perception to both time and his surroundings to fleeting glimpses. It’s all too much. Everything’s numb up to his fingertips, completely stupidly stupid, and feels utterly synthetic. What used to be too painfully slow went by too fucking fast for Tommy’s dumb slow brain to comprehend it all, and it results in a confusion of both reality and fiction. If even a moment he finds himself grasping the situation, he loses his grip immediately after.

The thought that the once living Wilbur would’ve coped well with it all just made Tommy feel a lot more ill than before.

He walks but there isn’t a reason to. Like bleary vision returning after awakening, reality flickers from reverie to corporeality without a moment's notice, total lucidity wavering from the reach of the boy’s fingertips. His boots press down on dying leaves and it echoes in his head, and it rings and rings until Tommy’s dragged up onto dull marble whereupon catching a glimpse of his reflection, he scuffs his face.

The meeting resumes as a gavel punctuates the court’s chatting, and Tommy settles into the sheets of the cell bed. From behind bars, he could see his mens' sorrowed expressions with Quackity almost denting the floor with his rapid foot-tapping and Fundy’s ears hanging low, each and every one of them looking like they’re about to burst. There’s a reason for their rhyme this time - the arbiter of what’s right or wrong has arrived at the court with his cronies kissing his ass red and an incredibly inflated ego.

Dream, a very reasonable and pleasant person, swings his sword around like a maddened drunk, demanding for Tommy’s head whilst his own hangs low to indulge in conspicuous hypocrisy. A sloppy eater, that one. Tubbo leaves Dream’s petulant cries to one side and interrogates Tommy, opening him up like a vivisection. He prods at his shoddy alibi and discards it, cutting straight to the truth of the matter and dealing with such a clinical approach that his every gesticulation lacks warmth, dead.

The cold prison floor feels more familiar than happiness. As he stares at Tubbo’s back, he reminisces on the days gone in flower fields where Tubbo’s rosy red cheeks were worn from smiling, living life like it’s a film. Everything’s changed for the good or for the worst; their homes, their friends, and even themselves. Tubbo changed from wanting to abandon L’Manberg to a small cottage far away to sacrificing friendships and time for L’Manberg. Changed from a boy content with just fighting alongside Tommy to only mailing in once a week to check if he’s doing his paperwork.

It's not even his fault; it's the burden that comes with his new-founded responsibilities that's at fault. Tubbo knows that he can't fuck up lest he wants to be branded the next Schlatt, especially with the whole being a ram hybrid as well, and his responsibilities pile higher and higher with every single mistake no matter how negligible it may seem to be. Like everyone else, he wants to move on from all the bloody violence, so he drowned himself in work to ease his mind from the gore, resigning himself from the hindrance of love to embrace the corporate coldness that is work. There isn't anyone to blame for Tubbo's loss of love except for Wilbur.

Dark green shifts to Navy blue, and Tubbo gives out his ruling; probation work. It’s not the worst punishment he’s been assigned but it leaves a lot to be desired. Besides having to report to his fucking nephew of all people, he has to write down how his day’s gone and Tubbo’s got to be a miracle worker to even get him to recall anything that’s happened a minute ago. This is fucking stupid, and he wants none of it. 

Tommy’s filter dissolves as he opens his mouth forgetting that he could just think. It’s stupid, dumb and absolutely moronic. And in response to his conniption, he’s tossed into a pit of lava, saved only by a bucket of water. It takes a moment for Tommy to register that this isn’t some fictitious scenario he’s daydreamed up again - there was an actual attempt on his life by his best friend. He could’ve died there. The remaining lava bubbles inside it's obsidian cast, crackling and popping with malice as Tommy just blankly stared at it.

“Let me out.” Tommy gasps, desperate and scrambling against the wall, feeling the cold cobble walls press against his back as perspiration builds up on his forehead. “Let me out- I- I can’t fucking breathe no more! Just let me out! I want out!”

Someone’s talking but it’s muddled. He can hear his every heartbeat, and he lowers his trembling hands to his side, still shaking even as he hugs himself tight. Every hair in his body is standing and he’s breathing like it’s going out of style, the all-consuming fear collecting in his visceras as it cradled him softly. Tommy thought he'd forgotten how to feel fear, let alone emote, but confronted with hissing lava, he remembers rather vividly what it’s like to fear for your life.

Deo's face looms over the glass, peering down at Tommy like a sample under a microscope, and shatters the glass with his sword. A few shards scratch his face and a few land in the lava, screeching bloody murder as it dissolves in the lava.

“Let's get you outta there.” Deo smiles, offering his hand.

Tommy stutters, a little too frightened to offer up any witty comments. “Thank you.”

Shaken, he gets up and wonders if he even has the mental strength to walk anymore but he knows the sun’s not even close to setting yet, exhausting the adrenaline from his near death experience to even walk out of the court.

“Was Ranboo involved-”

And that’s where Tommy stops him despite still convalescencing from his consternation. As much as he’d like to shove the blame onto someone else, he’s not going to do that to some random kid with no one to help him. Tommy knows what it’s like to be in that situation, and he’d be no better than Dream if he were to push the blame onto Ranboo.

“Nope. Ranboo wasn’t involved! He wasn’t there, he wasn’t there!” Tommy pleads, his voice shaky and weak. “I’m being genuinely serious. He had nothing to do with it. It was just me. Just me.”

Tubbo looks at him funny but entertains him. “He wasn’t there? Then I guess we can just let him off the hook.”

Welcomed back into the sunlight, Tommy bathes in the security it provides, letting it wash away his uneasiness. He slowly slips back into the laps of lassitude and is rocked back and forth by the soft hums of birds still chirping beyond tall trees. He can’t deal with this. He places his left foot forward. Bushes rustle as wildlife scurry through them. Tommy tries to get in contact with his consciousness but it's answering machine picks up instead.

Object permanence fails him. He wants to lay down but laying down in the middle of the road would bring more suspicion then he’d want to busy himself with, and any faults will be picked apart by the eagle’s vultures and torn into decaying rumours. Sludge trickles from the fissures in his atrophied brain, slowing his thoughts into a stasis, spiralling and shackling him in a daze-like trance that haze lingers in his clouded judgement like the fleetinging dawn.

A hand jolts him into lucidity, startling him wide awake.

“Tommy?”

Nonplus, Tommy swivels his head to look at them, brushing the hand off curtly. It's Deo. He’s retired out of his christmas hat since it’s November, revealing curly locks that twirl round like bed hair.

“Your christmas hat's gone. You look all funny.”

Deo affectionately flicks him on the forehead. “Says you. You look dead.”

Tommy finds himself smiling. He won’t let that comment slide by so easily. It’s gone a little too long since he’s made a joke at Deo’s expense, and he sought to amend that by cracking one himself. “Drop dead gorgeous?”

“Okay- No. No, no, no. Not this again.” Deo nervously shakes his head and hands, frowning as wide as he can in disapproval. “Nope. I’m out.”

“I’m sorry, Deo.” Tommy lies. “It was just too easy.”

Pouting his lips, Deo grumbles. “I’m gonna get the police knocking at my door.”

“I’m sixteen! I’m legally an adult now. A big man, if you will. I can marry, buy a house and have kids, so technically it’s not illegal if- Y’know. Just saying.”

Flustered, Deo crosses his arms, obviously not playing into the bit like some shameless forty-two year old man and a green bastard would. Deo’s gotten so nervous that you’d think someone had lit a fire below his ass, which metaphorically, holds true.

As demanding as a kicked puppy would sound, Deo whined. “Please stop.”

Tommy feels a lot more mean today than usual and acts upon his malice. With a sinister smile, Tommy places his finger on his chin, his tone tinted with playful cruelness. “I’m just saying, Deo. That’s what we’re all thinking- I’m just the only person with enough balls to put it out there, Y’know?”

“On second thought, I think I’ll just find somewhere else to live.”

“You’re stuck with me, T Money. You can sleep in God- I mean, Vikkstar’s room for now. Just don’t touch his girlfriend.” 

“His what-?” Deo gasps. It’s honestly surprising how much Deo gets shocked by Tommy’s antics given his adventures in Hypixel, but Tommy supposes becoming Frankenstein and building a girlfriend would confound many.

“Well, I thought he’d get lonely in his five million dollar chad pad without his girlfriend, so I made her out of cobblestone and-”

“-I’m suddenly reconsidering our friendship.”

It’s clearly a joke. Deo’s tone is dripping in sarcasm, and it’s followed by an outlandish statement which would obviously precede a joke response, and he’s never once deserted him when things got dire. But it doesn’t feel like one. It hurt more than nothing in the world, and he can feel his happy little virtual world necrotized back into null, rotting away like a dead rat. He knows that it’s a joke, but he can’t believe it.

His world is caving in again into a gulf of gloom. The knife twists at the thought that someone he cares about is going to leave him again; his friends, his family, and his idols have already moved on while he’s just left to choke in their dust. No one fucking cares enough to stay anymore. Searching for support, he clings tightly on Deo’s sleeves, and murmurs.

“Please don’t abandon me too.”

“Woah- Tommy? I’m- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go too far with that joke. I didn’t mean it. You know I won’t betray you.”

Fuck. He didn’t mean to make Deo feel guilty. Now he just feels like a massive dick. “It’s fine. Just a touchy subject.”

“I see. I’m really, really sorry.”

Tommy doesn’t like what he’s just done. Deo's uncomfortable but definitely not for the right reasons. He shouldn’t have to feel guilty for his own little outburst cause it’s genuinely not his fault, and the atmosphere’s gone all depressed and sad. “Don’t be.”

“I- I'll always be by your side no matter what happens.”

Tommy looks down at the floor, feeling himself sink into the wooden path. He wants to shut his stupid fucking mouth up but the words keep pouring out before he can even process what's happening, and his stomach churns violently in self-loathing as he watches Deo's face scrunch up from discomfort. “That’s what Wisp said before he betrayed me, and that’s what Tubbo said before he abandoned me.”

“But I’m not Wisp nor Tubbo, Tommy.”

That doesn't change anything. Tubbo isn't Wisp, and Wisp isn't Tubbo, yet they're still doing the same fucking thing, which is abandoning him. So that begs the question; what changes if it's him? The pain level? The time it takes for Deo to cast him aside? Everyone promised to stay but look where he is now; forlorn and forgotten.

Gritting his teeth, Tommy hopes that he doesn't tear up and if he does that Deo wouldn't notice. “But that doesn't mean you can't do the same shit they did.”

"And that doesn't mean I will repeat what they've done to you. You're saying it like I'm already planning to, which is dumb considering how much time it takes to return to Hypixel."

As much as Tommy can't believe it, he hopes it's true. Deo's delivery felt earnest and sincere, but Tommy's trust has been hurt too many times for anyone to hold again. A tear pricks at his eyes as he relaxes his shoulders, momentarily succumbing to the comfort of Deo's explanation that seems too good to be true.

"Touche."

The conversation died there, leaving the scent of bittersweet sadness to linger around the air alongside the dusk breeze. From the burnt orange sunset, the night showers in with constellations and celestial bodies that scintillate in it’s cosmic purple veil, the lily white crescent shying away from any clouds to bask in night-time brooding. The path threatens to break under their weight but endures it anyways, and they arrive at Tommy’s house to settle in with the night.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s the calm before the storm both figuratively and literally. In exactly forty eight more hours, his entire existence will be deleted. His data will be completely wiped and his existence will be written out of the code. Dream's arranged for a meeting in exactly two days' time for the confirmation of Tommy’s exile, which is a much sweeter way of saying Tommy's a dead man walking. So, in short, he has two days to check off his bucket list and make amends, which is both too long and too short or a weird culmination of the two.

It's another day. Muddied and stained black, a godless and unempathetic sky rumbles as trouble rests under shelter from the cold, leaving a land wrought black and blue from mischief’s wrath an undisturbed settlement for rain and thunder. The animals are gone as they’ve hid in the warmth of their nests and burrows. The streets are empty and even more devoid of life. Trash builds up in the corner of Tommy’s basement. A tea kettle screams bloody murder from behind them.

Usually, Tommy would sit and groan in his misery, whine about random things, maybe sip on some hot cocoa as he savours the too familiar taste of self-pity, but he can’t cause Deo’s here.

There’s nothing wrong with Deo in particular. Deo's sweet and nice, Tommy thinks. He's stayed and listened to him ramble about women, and helped him repair his house a little. A friend that Tommy can trust and they’d trust back. It’s just that Tommy doesn’t really wanna sulk infront of anyone.

Deo is definitely a friend. He’s built like a friend with the whole bright warm wardrobe that just screams of huggable traffic cones and he's yet to betray him. When he'll leave - Tommy doesn't know just yet. Probably when he realises the same thing everyone else did; Tommy's flawed. Everyone he loved realised it and they all left him. Wisp teamed with Techno when he realised he’s weak, Wilbur completely ignored Tommy cause he isn’t placid enough, and Tubbo has given up on him because he isn’t good enough. Deo might even ditch him cause of that stupid fucking outburst from yesterday. 

He has to be perfect. It’s something that he became acutely aware of after L’Manberg was built out of craters and protected with blackstone walls. He’s a hero, and therefore a good guy, and good guys are perfect. When he had to talk Wilbur out of blowing up something that a blurry memory of him made Tommy swear to protect, he realised that there isn’t any room for flaws unless he wants to fucking lose it all again, and when his pale face sunk below the dirt of the only remaining tree of L’Manberg, he knew that he can’t ever, ever, fail ever again.

As a hero, he has a legacy to fulfil. Heroes are always perfect; they save the day, people depend on them to maintain peace, and they beat up the bad guys. They don’t have flaws, and he’s supposed to be a god damn hero and not some unmoored dumbass who can’t even tell the difference between his floor and ceiling. His senses are a decaying and incomprehensible rot that not even ten yards of red wool and a delusional conspiracist could string together to begin explaining, mostly because there’s nothing much to explain, synapses and caffeine tangling with everything else to form a big, singular knot. 

Tommy really hadn’t a single excuse. Before he lost his marbles, Wilbur was a hero. He was everything the people sang praises for. Hell, Tommy can barely remember anything he’d done wrong before he went insane, but then again, Tommy barely remembers anything. He was everything.He fought for a L’Manberg soiled in blood but free from it’s shackles, and never once regretted it. Evil would cower had he shone down upon them with his resplendence. He never hesitated, he was always rational, and he was always anchored to reality. All Tommy could do was marvel at him with starry eyes and unparalleled amazement as he waddled in his footsteps, starstrucked.

Tommy followed him from the grassy fields of their childhood home into a new land, into a warzone where warmth was bad, into a battered and bruised nation, and into a dingy ravine, and he would do it all again.

But now that Wilbur’s gone and he’s quite literally left with the ghost of him, and the boy’s never really been stellar at rationality with it constantly disintegrating within his grasp. He was more the type to have someone tell him a plan and Tommy would completely improvise it sec. Tommy barely even remembers his what his big brother would do let alone his fucking face, a fact that rips at him from the inside. No one can help Tommy anymore.

With sigh, Tommy slinks into his crossed arms and watches as the storm brews, gloom spreads thick amongst the glitchy skybox. Despite the howling winds, it’s intolerably quiet. Nothing’s happening, the world is as big as life, and Tommy still feels as infinitesimally small as he did before. Deo doesn't say a word – probably enjoying Tommy shutting up for once – and sits next to him, a loud scratch echoing as he pulls the seat out.

“I’ve never seen you this quiet before.” Deo murmurs with something in his tone that sounds funny but in a bad way that makes Tommy feel embarrassed about himself. It sounds of pity. “You still … upset from yesterday?”

“Upset from what?” Tommy plays dumb. It’s routine, and it made his face all scrunch up and his guts tighten seeing Deo upset and all from his own stupidity. “From reporting to a fuckin’ furry? God, he smells so bad.”

Deo seems surprised or something close to that but picks up on the message to not push it any further. “Erm. We’ll go with that.”

With the faint sound of thunder echoing within the cold stone walls, Deo sips on a cup of hot chocolate, porcelain clinking against the scathingly frigid table as his eyes wander far beyond the peripherals of his home and onto the storm incoming. The cold surface stings his cheeks a little but it helps to keep him tethered to this plane.

However weird it felt for someone to voluntarily be in his presence, Tommy didn’t exactly hate it. It reminds him of a hug, or a wave. Some other friendly gesture he’d ever had in dreams and faint memories. Deo's presence is comforting in short, or maybe it’s the company that he finds soothing. Tommy didn't even know he missed hanging around people till he had the pleasure of experiencing it again. A faint thought pondering if Tubbo would do this for him made his stomach sink.

“I’m just thinking-”

Deo feigns surprise. “You? Thinking? Congratulations, Tommy.”

“Fuck off, man! I’m so god damn smart and shit I can out-eight million IQ fuckin’ Dream if I just tried to! Anyways - before you interrupted me - I’m just thinking about something.”

“About what?” Deo questions.

The words dangle off his tongue but everything about it feels like an admission of weakness ranging from his already poor mood and to the embarrassing nature of his rant, so he hesitates, wondering if he should even start this conversation and just switch the topic to something else like women or the weather. It’s just too troublesome, and no one really benefits from him saying it, but he wants to say it.

“Why did Wilbur make Tubbo the president?”

Tommy immediately regrets his decision. The atmosphere suddenly shifts from one of intimacy to one of itching discomfort, primarily from Tommy’s side where the teen fidgets with the ends of his sleeves, and he can’t help but regret being a bit of a killjoy. Deo doesn’t really know how to respond, which is fair as even Tommy couldn’t answer it himself. Tommy’s fingers curl up against his white undershirt, fabric adjusting to the intense pressure in which he exerted as he dug his nails deep into his arm.

After what Tommy estimates to be a few minutes, Deo says, “... Maybe he thought that Tubbo would be a good president?”

“He is- I mean, I can’t say that he isn’t, but I feel like there’s something more to it, something bad, like those ads for hot women in your local area you get sometimes in your mail, y’know?”

“Hot women in my _what-?_ Nevermind, just continue.”

“There’s this one line that always rings through my head as I sleep. It’s Wilbur, and we’re in Pogtopia, the lantern lights are dying out and there’s water trailing down the walls, and with a big ‘ol grin on his face, he leans in and says, _‘Tommy, let’s be the bad guys’,_ but I don- I don’t wanna be the bad guy.”

Melancholy had crept up on him, wrapping his hands around the boy tightly, and when he’d fully realised it, his words had already swollen up in his throat and tears are starting to prick at his eyes, so he did his best to kill it. Tommy clenched his fists, bit down hard onto the inner part of his lip, and breathed as naturally as possible. It’s probably pathetic to see a war hero and old friend of the battlefield be rendered down into a stupid, sobbing pool of a mess. An empty, delusional and completely irrational husk of what he should’ve been.

Deo says nothing and does nothing. He doesn’t even adjust his now sinking Christmas hat that musses his fringe, and he sits there with his lips pressed in a line, and Tommy hopes it’s Deo’s own way of comforting him, and he carries on.

“The- The reason I didn’t make Tubbo the leader when I had- I could’ve chose anyone, and I chose Wilbur who was already half-insane but I knew he was coming back around and I didn’t choose Tubbo,” Tommy trails off into a sigh, trying to find the words to say it. “It’s because I knew that if Tubbo was the president, it’d pull us apart, Deo.”

Wilbur had once described Tubbo in passing as lawful good whatever that meant. Said that he’d stay true to his country and respected laws and rules and did what he thinks is right. Tubbo is more rational, logical and more like the son Phil had always wanted, able to think objectively and detach himself from all emotions as opposed to Tommy’s irrational and emotional responses. Tubbo plans and bides his time, while Tommy springs into action blind.

And Dream knew this. Dream knows this like it’s the back of his hand. And in classic Dream fashion, milked it until the cow died. He used his lawful nature to pit them against one another, and he knew that Tubbo’s first priority would be his nation, and Tommy can’t even blame Tubbo for it.

“Look at him. He’s picking his nation over me. And if he _does_ on friday, I don’t know what I’m gonna do with myself.”

Maybe he could toss himself into the ocean and swim away to an island at the edge of the world, or he could play chicken with a gloom infested precipice until he wins, or he could befriend a zombie just for the slight warmth the thought of it will provide him as his person burns in the cold. Tommy knows himself best, or at least better than everyone here, and he knows his callused hands were not made for surviving but to spill blood and hurt, slender fingers made for thievery than foresting, and his ambidexterity to wield a shield and sword and not a sickle or a watering can.

Phil had never taught him how to survive. He had taught him how to survive emotionally, whether it be intentional or not, and how to stagnate any rising feelings and to toss them deep where no man can wander to, but never the art of foresting. He’d reserved that lesson for Techno only.

Thunder rumbles, illuminating Deo’s cheek a light saxe blue as he redirects his gaze from the storm to the boy beside him. He doesn’t say a word however, breathing in not out of the need to live but a moment to think, lips pressed into a thin line.

Eventually, Deo starts to talk.

“I dun think Tubbo would exile you. Y’all have been friends longer than I have, right? And even if he does, I’ll stick with you, mostly because that why I’m here and also ‘cause I dun really know what the hell’s going on around here to wanna settle down here yet.”

Deo has never been a man of comfort. He was born with the same bloodied hands as he was but unlike Tommy, had a more versatile use for them. He knew of comfort, and demonstrated his understanding of it with a reassuring pat on the back and pleasant words that fell like gentle sunlight on bush leaves.

Tears threaten to pour over but for the first time in forever, it wasn't out of misery.

A smile cracks Tommy's emotionless face. “Thanks, Deo. Really appreciate it.”

Deo smiles back. “No problem, Tommy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delayed chapter !! originally, i was supposed to have this out before the year ended but the plot had gone on so quickly i lost the motivation to continue writing it, but i've recently started it again seeing as the plot has slowed down a lot lot and tommy's part has relaxed.


	4. Chapter 4

The next time he sees the brit after the rainstorm was right after his meeting with Dream and Tubbo to discuss his terms of exile. He’d expected good tidings and what-not, presuming that Tubbo still retained a bit of that same viciousness he bore witness to before and would opt to fight Dream, but when his friend returns with his tail between his legs and inconsolable, Deo knew what the verdict was.

Tommy looked thoroughly broken. Even more broken than he looked before. Lifeless, yet angry and hurting. His eyes looked dead, dried tears stained his cheeks, and he stood there in bitter disbelief as if he’d violently snapped every string he had anchoring him to reality. It was almost trance-like how he looked so emotionless if he hadn’t noticed the tears welling up in his eyes and the clenched teeth. It already hurt to see Tommy in his former state, but to see him come back in such a broken state left a searing pain nothing could remedy.

It hurt even more hearing Tommy, so unbelievably small and frail, stammering out a quiet, “Y-You lied.”

Deo didn’t know what to say. He would’ve thought Tubbo would’ve fought against it with the whole L’Manberg thing, though then again their correspondence were mostly letters ranging from death threats to seasonal greetings. Deo thinks they’re on pretty good terms. He feels a terrifying and all-consuming guilt tearing away at him, and the ugly feeling of disappointment at himself propelled him to open his mouth. “I’m sorry, Tommy.”

Cutting even deeper into the wound, Tommy clings to his arms to cradle himself facing the floor. Where joy and happiness should be was replaced with a discordant bitterness, leaving every word that he spoke even sharper than daggers. “You lied to me.”

For once, Deo doesn’t know what to do. Faced with his old friend disintegrating right before him, he stands there helplessly watching his decay, watching his persona bashed against with heavy loathing, and every second is torture. How should he comfort Tommy? Every generic sentence of comfort has already been exchanged, and it all seemed too insincere to use. Maybe he should just try his luck anyways? But if it doesn’t work, Tommy’s gonna think he’s patronising him, or even worse, disingenuous.

Deo, after a second of deliberation, opts to go for defence. “I really didn’t know Tubbo would exile you.”

“Well, he did, and now I’m ex- _iled_ , Deo. _E_ to the _X_ to the - _ILED._ What the fuck am I going to do now? What am I going to fucking do there?”

Tommy pulls at his hair, tefts of dirt-clumped hair peering from the gaps of his fingers as it dug deep into his skull. He's at his wits end. Like a fly trapped in a cobweb, Tommy's struggling against the proverbial trap that is his circumstances, secured tightly to the thin lines of fate weaved by an elementary ruse.

Desperation was starting to take over now. Sweat rolls down his cheeks, and he's starting to look unsteady. There's not a single thing that doesn't upset Deo about him — his friend on the verge of a sickly shattering with eyes as glazed as a doll, endlessly gasping for air as he drowns in the thick mud that is tragedy — but for the sake of Tommy, he suppresses his feelings.

“Hell, I'm not even supposed to be here. I ran away from Dream. Tell me, Deo. Please just enlighten me, would you?”

Tommy stares up. His eyes are so cold and dead. His mouth has contorted into a vicious snarl. His tears whisper to Deo that he's miserable. What remains of the same boy who danced with the simple thrall of adventure with a smile on his face felt like a vivid but distant dream.

“Y’know, all I wanted was a little break. Some time alone to prepare to take back my discs. I was stuck in some ravine in the middle of nowhere, had to watch my older brother go insane and then subsequently blow up my home, my dad - well, kinda? It’s complicated. Don’t ask - stabbed my own brother in front of me, and all the political bullshit."

Tommy's bottom lip quivers as he waxes bitterly over his plight. “All this time, I've been thinking. Why me? Why is it always me?”

“I’m never going to go home ever again. I’m never going to see my friends ever again. I won’t get to curse at Badboyhalo again. I’m gonna be all alone.” Tommy stops there. The ghost of ‘again’ hangs still in the air.

“I’m coming with you.”

Tommy seems taken aback, letting Deo’s response sink in like a bullet to the cranium. 

“Wait. Really? Like, really really?” He sounds almost impressed. “You’re gonna follow me to exile. Far far away from here. Away from all the action. I get pity, but this a bit much, innit?”

There wasn’t a trace of anger in Tommy's voice. Not even a trace of gloom. It had been washed down with genuine nonplus which leaves his eyes wide and lips wordless, a familiar incontestable awe cracking his frown into a small smile.

Grabbing his hand, Deo hopes he could make it clear to this dense idiot's head that he's going to follow him to the end of the world with or without an incentive to.

“I literally told you yesterday that I would because I have nowhere else to go. It’s not out of pity.” Deo states. “So stop being sad now.”

“So you’re not doing this out of pity? And I can’t choose to not be sad, Deo. It’s like choosing a girl. I just simply can’t. I love them all too much to choose.”

It’s both depressing and amusing how quickly Tommy's persona recovers if not insanely uncomfortable as well. “Yeah. And what's with your stupid analogies?”

“Did you just call girls stupid? Deo, how fuckin’ dare you! You son of a bi-”

Deo raises his hands in a surrender position. This is a bad, bad bit to be in. “Stop. No. Nope. I am not sexist.”

Tommy crosses his arms looking pissed like he'd been the one that was wronged. “When you put it like that, I just can't believe you.”

“Let's just stop this right here.” Deo sighs. “We're gonna need some stuff before we head off to exile.”

“Oh yeah, right.”

Deo surveys the shithole Tommy calls a house - or soon to be ex-house - and grabs whatever he thinks would aid them best in the wilderness; some preserved meats, a bow and a few arrows, some weird potions that Deo thinks is a potion of leaping, and a few planks of wood. It's not exactly ideal materiél to work with, especially since none of them would actually be too useful in combat, but it will suffice.

Tommy snatches a bit of cobblestone and a chipped iron axe, glancing back at Deo with a wide smile. If Tommy wasn't crying in his arms earlier, Deo wouldn't have been any wiser on how scared because of that thick persona that is his lifeline. It's kinda scary.

Once Deo has gotten tired of rummaging through Tommy's chest, they decide that this was probably the most they're getting out of this shithole.

As if waiting for them to finish to make his grand entrance, Dream slithers by the entrance, blocking the sunlight and obscuring his face in a warm shadow. It's incredibly intimidating to say the least.

“There you are, Tommy. You can't just run away like that.” Dream coos, his voice is slick with an indistinguishable poison that singes Deo's nerves. It's as if everything about Dream was made to discomfort others. “Oh, and Deo. I don't believe we've talked before.”

Deo has never hated his own name more in the moment. No wonder Tommy hates this guy. Tommy expectedly flinches from the spider's hissing, recoiling further into the wall he had unconsciously backed up into. “Fuck you. I fucking hate you. Eat shit.”

“There's no need for this.. hostility, Tommy. If anything, you should be directing your anger at Tubbo, y'know, the one that exiled you?”

Tommy doesn't want to show it but he's stuck in the spider's web. “Shut up, shut up, shut up. You're a sick bastard.”

“I've got to escort you out of L'manberg, Tommy. President's orders.” Deo could just hear the sinister smile from the disgustingly smug tone in Dream's voice, and his violent tendencies urge him to cave in that skull of his.

Before Deo could grant himself the satisfaction of beating him into the next week, Tommy acquiesces, murmuring a violent, “Fuck you.” It only served to feed Dream's delight however, which quietly infuriated the boy in orange even further.

“I'm coming with Tommy.” Deo states, searching hopefully for any tells or physical reations from Dream. “To exile.”

And to his pleasant surprise, he'd reeled in one. A really big one. For a moment, Dream flinches, genuinely put off-kilter by his declaration. His muscles had tensed as he mulled over it, exuding an ominous aura that even Deo could sense from the far corner of his house, a reaction which struck the boy in orange as odd.

No one would really react this way – sure, they'd be a little surprised if they had no prior knowledge of the two's previous friendship, but to falter this hard was completely unnatural, which tipped something off to Deo. He wasn't supposed to have done this. Naturally, Deo concludes that he'd just interfered with a plot of Dream's. It seems his exiling-Tommy scheme hadn't stopped at just exiling him.

Tommy looks worried. It seems he had just made the very same connection Deo had as well.

Trying to regain his composure, Dream clamps tightly onto Tommy's wrist, violently pulling the teen forward and scrambling for balance. The brit obviously didn't appreciate the rough manhandling from the looks of his glare, which only strengthened Deo resolve in his endeavour.

“Oh? That's very kind of you, Deo, but isn't L'manberg so much nicer than wherever Tommy's going?”

“I'll have to see for myself.” Deo crosses his arms watching the panic leak from the green eldritch horror. He's got Dream by the throat and Deo's not going to let go that easily. “I never liked countries anyways.”

“You could live in the DreamSMP. I can get Sam to build you a nice home–”

“As I said: not interested.” Deo refuses. Surprisingly for some overhyped villain, Dream really lacks tact, but then again, his ploy to exile Tommy wasn't really subtle either. “Why are you offering me all this?”

“I'm just worried for you, Deo. I know you care for Tommy, but Tommy's quite a … problematic kid. I don't know if you'll cope well in the wilderness with him - it's a scary place out there - and I'm just offering you some alternatives.”

Pushing Dream further, Deo shrugs his shoulders. “I've already made up my mind. I'm going with Tommy.”

“Are you sure? There's a lot more resources and friends you could get here then in some desolate island far away from everyone else.” Dream clamps tighter onto Tommy's wrist, almost breaking it into two. It's strangely amusing how quickly his tough guy facade crumbles at the slight bit of a hindrance. “Besides, you can always visit Tommy in exile. There's no rule saying you can't do that.”

“I would be able to get more resources from places that people haven't gone to, and Tommy's enough company for me.” Deo smirks. He feels kinda bad for ripping through Dream like this but Tommy certainly doesn't. He's star-struck. “And as I said before, I don't like countries.”

Dream falters again, and when he recovers, he responds with enough venom to kill a man. Luckily, Deo's got a spine and a few more lives to spare. “Fine. I'll allow it but under one condition.”

“What is it?”

“You aren't allowed to come back into the DreamSMP or L'manberg. You can always change your–”

Deo shrugs his shoulders. “Sure. I don't plan on it either.”

Dream recoils, his tough guy facade falling apart at the seams. “You're sure about this?”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

Dream stands silently. Tommy looks over at Deo as if he'd just slain a dragon, and Deo couldn't help but smile warmly at the awe in the brit's eyes. It's comforting to see him at ease for a change. The moment was ruined however as the petty monster jerks Tommy over to his side and storms off, leaving Deo in their dust.

For now, their exchange ends here. Deo's well aware that Dream's not done yet. He doesn't strike Deo as the type to let go and give up after being humiliated to this extent, and he definitely reeks of being a sore loser. Deo will prepare accordingly, of course, but he doesn't know what exactly keeps Dream on the top of the foodchain but he knows he's prone to sleights and pulling strings. Not exactly ideal in their situation, but Deo's got to deal with the shit hand he's been dealt.

It looks like Deo's got two people to look out for, and for two completely seperate reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no beta this time i am just dumping this all here cause if not, i'll never do it !! anyways i know that sbi fd is dead but i don't really care for writing it out . fuck c!dream . farewell .


End file.
